I just call this one SISTER for now, I may never title it, and tomorrow I may burn it, but today I am depressed, for she is gone.
When I was just a little girl,
Somewhere about age five.
My sister told me such a tale,
She was then so alive.
She was a bit more old than I,
Almost four little years.
She told me tales of Daddy's deeds,
And cried a lot of tears.
She told how he came in at night,
Of what he had then done.
The things so bad, the way it hurt,
She wanted then to run.
A time or two he came to me,
And touched me way down low.
For what he did was very bad,
But I just did not know.
I didn't know for many years,
Just what my sister meant.
When I grew up and realized,
My young heart was then rent.
My Father is a memory,
His carcass in a box.
The casket went into the ground,
Sealed with two big padlocks.
He won't get out is what I vowed,
To sister's memory.
The shame and hurt she could not stand,
She set her spirit free.
2007-10-13
15:34:10
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7 answers
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asked by
Anonymous
in
Poetry